


sanguine

by softnow



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, one of those days from hell, periods suck and women are metal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-07-03 23:48:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15829419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softnow/pseuds/softnow
Summary: scully has a no good, very bad, absolutely terrible day.





	sanguine

**Author's Note:**

> sanguine (adv.) ~~cheerfully optimistic;~~ **bloodred**.
> 
> based on the prompt by [viceversa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/viceversa/works): scully is having a no good, very bad, absolutely terrible day, and mulder pulls his head out of his ass long enough to notice, and to comfort her.

Her day starts like this: forty-five minutes late with just enough time for a shower, no blow-dry, with one last clean pair of hose with a run in the thigh, with an empty Folgers tin and no time to brew it even if it were full.

There’s traffic, because of course there is. A fucking four-car pile up and it’s not even eight am. She’s trying to mentally reroute herself, work through the side streets and side-side streets as she sits, stopped, behind a GMC Sonoma with a cracked back glass when she feels it. The tell-tale twinge just below her belly button, an unpleasant dampness between her thighs.

She’s fourteen minutes late to work—not a big deal to anyone else, probably, but a Big Fucking Deal to Dana Scully who prescribes to the notion of ten minutes early being five minutes late—and heads straight to the ladies’. Sure enough. And these are her favorite underwear, too. She pops in a tampon, tells herself to rally the fuck up. Washes her hands, digs her last two ibuprofen out of the little pill container at the bottom of her bag…and drops them into the sink. Right down the drain. Bullseye.

Do not cry, she tells herself in the mirror. I swear to God, Dana, do not cry.

She does not cry. She does deep-breathing exercises in the elevator.

“Hey, Scully,” Mulder says as she pushes through the door. He’s all bright eyes and easy smile today, because why wouldn’t he be? He was here on time, caffeinated by the look of him, and most importantly, he isn’t bleeding useless, lifeless blood into twelve-dollar silk. “There you are. I was beginning to wonder.”

And oh. She will not punch her partner she will not punch her partner today is not the day she punches her partner.

“Here I am,” she says, as deflated as she feels.

“Got some good news for ya.” He rounds the desk with a file in hand and whatever it is, unless it’s two ibuprofen and a day-pass to go home, she does not want it. “Finally got that exhumation on Charles McNamara. They sent the body over this morning. It’s waiting for you at the lab.”

He holds out the file. She stares. Maybe if she stares long enough, he’ll take it back.

“Scully? Hey, you okay?”

She blinks. Forces her gaze up to his. He looks genuinely concerned, and for some reason, that makes it worse.

“Fine.” She yanks the file out of his hand, picks up her bag from where she dropped it. “What are you going to do?”

He’s already gathering his things, patting his pockets for his keys. “Gonna go talk to Mrs. McNamara again. See if she’s seen anything else.”

Fuck you, she almost but does not say. Mrs. McNamara, widow of Mr. McNamara, recently deceased but seen—supposedly—conducting business at his former law practice, has offered them coffee and scones every time they’ve been to interview her. And now Mulder, who has already had his coffee, who—again—isn’t bleeding out of a crucial part of his anatomy, is going to have more coffee, while she—who has had no coffee and is, mind, slowly losing iron—is going to stand on her achy feet for the next three hours and examine a dead man.

For an officer of justice, she sure doesn’t get a lot of it herself.

—

Three hours later, she hangs up her surgical cap and changes back into her suit. Her feet sob at the idea of heels, an army of soldiers is marching unto war behind her eyes, and her uterus is, by the feel of it, trying to dig its way out of her body with a dull, rusty spoon.

She compiles her report—which states that Mr. McNamara is indeed very dead and shows no signs of having dug his way out of his grave, brokered a property transaction, and then reburied himself—and takes it to the basement. 

Mulder is still gone. She leaves the file on his desk and takes a long lunch.

—

“Where have you been?” He pops up from his slide projector as soon as she returns feeling no better despite the grande Americano and turkey club sandwich. “I tried to call you.”

She pats her pocket and remembers plugging her cellphone in before bed last night. Remembers not unplugging it this morning.

“Sorry,” she says.

“Skinner called. He needs this quarter’s expense reports last week.”

She blinks. So?

“And you have the receipts from Colorado and Michigan, right?”

She nods. So?

“Great. I’m going to talk to the fine gentlemen at McNamara and Weinstein again—Mrs. McNamara mentioned something about an account he was working, something going south. Gonna see if I can sweet talk his secretary into showing me those files. You’ll take care of the expense thing, right?”

Fuck you, she almost but does not say.  _His secretary_  is twenty-five and blonde, proportioned in ways that should be illegal. She probably had time to blow-dry her hair this morning. And when she bleeds, it’s almost certainly with a purpose.

“Right,” Scully says instead, through a jaw clenched so tight it hurts. “Of course.”

—

She spends all afternoon on the expense report and Skinner gives her a perfunctory but no less unenjoyable ass-chewing when she takes it up to him. Late, again. Over budget, again. She grits her teeth and bears it. Do not cry, Dana. Do not fucking cry.

She does not cry. She closes her eyes and pictures beach landscapes in the elevator.

Mulder’s back. There must be something on her face, because he raises his eyebrows, opens his mouth to speak.

“Don’t.” She walks past him and sinks into a chair.

“O-ookay.” He’s watching her. She can feel it. She does not look at him. “I, uh, I’m knocking off an hour early today. So…see you later.”

She grunts in his general direction and waits until she hears the door close to drop her head into her hands. She considers knocking off an hour early, too. But she was fourteen fucking minutes late today, and she refuses to let this be the day she comes in late  _and_  leaves early because she can’t handle a little menstruation. Hasn’t this been the stereotype she’s fought her entire adult life?

So she sits. And waits. And stays until 5:14. Because fuck you.

—

Never, ever in her life has she been so grateful to come home. Has there ever been a sweeter sound than her deadbolt turning over? She thinks not.

She gets two steps inside before she freezes. The smell is unmistakable. Pad Thai. She’d know that oily peanut scent anywhere. And the music… She left in a hurry this morning, but she’s pretty damn sure she didn’t leave Tchaikovsky on in the CD player.

There’s a rustle-thump from her bedroom, and she approaches curiously but cautiously. She’s been kidnapped, jumped, attacked too many times to pursue strange noises without at least a little trepidation. And with the day she’s had, she wouldn’t be surprised to find all of Mulder’s aliens alive and well and waiting to jump out of her closet.

And she’s…a third right. There are no aliens, and there is nobody in her closet, but there is Mulder, caught halfway between her bedroom and bathroom. He’s stripped down to his undershirt, suit trousers still on. There’s a bottle of bubble bath in his hand. They stare at each other for a long moment. She thinks it would be comical if she weren’t so damn tired.

“Uh… Mulder?”

“Hey, Scully. Welcome home.” He ducks his chin sheepishly, gives her that sweet little grin, and she feels herself melting by degrees.

“What are you doing here?” It comes out harsher than she intends, but if he notices, he doesn’t let on.

“I, uh… You seemed like you were having a bad day, and then I saw the date and realized…” He makes a noncommittal hand gesture, lets her fill in the blank.

Part of her is irrationally irritated. How dare he think he can keep her on a schedule like that? A larger part of her is deeply, intensely relieved. When has she ever had a man love her like this? Even with the autopsies and expense reports. Even with that. He took off an hour early to buy her dinner and draw her a bath because he noticed the date, and when.  _When._

“Mulder…”

He shakes his head and smiles. “Water’s getting cold.”

“Mulder.”

She crosses to him, takes his face in her palms, and pulls him down to her. He tastes like salt and something sweet, gum or candy, maybe. He feels better than two ibuprofen, better than a grande Americano, better than knocking off an hour early. His mouth is hot and wet and welcoming, the antithesis to the day she’s had, and she’d be perfectly happy to stay here all night.  _This_ , this is what she’s needed.

She kisses him until she can’t breathe. Then she drops her forehead to the side of his neck and nuzzles in. He holds her tight, the bottle of bubble bath still clutched in one hand against the top of her ass. It isn’t even a familiar bottle, she realizes. This man bought her bubble bath. Because she had a bad day. Because she’s in pain. Her nose tickles and her eyes burn and she buries her face deeper into his skin.

Do not cry, Dana, she tells herself. Do not ruin this by crying.

(But she does cry, though. Just a little bit.)

He rubs small circles on her back, makes soft sounds low in his throat. After a minute, he gives her a squeeze and says, “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she murmurs, and means it.


End file.
